100 Sideways Miles by Andrew Smith

away in frustration and sexual doubt.
    But before anything at all could happen, Mr. Nossik scrunched his brows together and pointed directly at Cade Hernandez’s chest.
    â€œYou!” he said over the top of his stiffened index finger. “I want you to go to the back of the room and turn around so I don’t have to look at you. I just can’t stand looking at your face right now.”
    And Cade wasn’t doing a thing.
    Well, except staring at Mr. Nossik with his seducer’s eyes.
    â€œI’m not doing anything, Mr. Nossik.”
    Cade’s voice was as sweet as jasmine flowers on an early summer evening.
    â€œI can tell you’re about to say something to me.”
    Mr. Nossik was already sweating.
    â€œI’m not going to say anything, Mr. Nossik. I promise.”
    I was certain the music of Cade’s plea and the look in his eyes at that moment caused several girls in the classroom to spontaneously ovulate.
    â€œGo to the back or I will throw you out of my room, Mr. Hernandez!”
    This was a regular occurrence in Mr. Nossik’s classroom. The old tight-buttoned fool never realized he was only making Cade out to be a bigger, more martyred hero in the hearts of his classmates.
    So Cade Hernandez, with sorrow-widened blue eyes, quietly stood and went back to the “Cade Desk,” which had been permanently turned away from the front of the room.
    One time I asked Cade if it hurt his feelings when Mr. Nossik singled him out and sent him away for no apparent reason. Cade was dead serious when he told me yes . I felt bad for him. For all his button-pushing prowess, Cade Hernandez was honestly sad about the way Mr. Nossik treated him at times, and I couldn’t blame him for it.
    So Mr. Nossik started in with his lecture about the accomplishments and difficult life of Charles Lindbergh. To be honest, nobody paid much attention. I think most of the kids in the class were waiting to see what Cade Hernandez was going to do to get Lucky Lindy to crash and burn.
    We all thought Cade would go right to work, too, because almost as soon as Mr. Nossik began telling about Lindbergh’s life before the historic transatlantic crossing, Cade shot his hand up in the air, rigid, straight, and sincere, with that earnest Cade Hernandez look on his face as he stared and stared over his shoulder into Mr. Nossik’s softening eyes.
    What could he possibly do?
    Nobody else in the entire class had a hand raised.
    Mr. Nossik ultimately broke down and called on Cade.
    He sighed, exasperated. “What is it, Mr. Hernandez?”
    And Cade, in the loveliest voice imaginable, said this: “Mr.Nossik, I read that Charles Lindbergh was more than a little racist, that he was obsessed with white supremacy—as though he believed the most urgent priority for us during the Second World War was not to defeat totalitarianism but to preserve the white race. Was that really true ?”
    Mr. Nossik looked very confused. Here was Cade Hernandez, in exile at the back of the classroom, asking a perfectly reasonable question about a figure from history. Cade, as I have said before, was actually a very smart kid.
    He was also a cat that had just so gently set his claws into Lucky Lindy’s plumage.
    Mr. Nossik said, “Um . . .”
    And Cade sank his claws deeper.
    â€œHow long did it take Charles Lindbergh to fly to Paris?”
    Mr. Nossik’s left eye twitched just a little. I noticed it. He had to have been thinking a bomb was about to drop, that Cade Hernandez was about to deploy a heat-seeking missile. If he was thinking that, he would have been correct.
    Mr. Nossik answered, “About thirty-four hours.”
    Cade said, “Thirty-four hours is a really long time. Do you suppose Charles Lindbergh masturbated at least once or twice during that flight, Mr. Nossik?”
    The bird was a goner.
    The kids in the class laughed.
    Mr. Nossik’s face began to swell within the